A light breeze stirred the bedroom's jalousie shutters, sending strands
of the midnight moon dancing across the curves of her naked, almond
skin. As always when she slept she was back in Pernambuco, in the
whitewashed room of long ago, perfumed with frangipani, with moonlight
and soft shadows that pirouetted against the clay walls.
. . . Slowly, silently, the moon at the window darkens, as a shadow
blossoms through the airless space, and in her dream the form becomes
the ancient _babalawo _of Pernambuco, hovering above her. Then
something passes across her face, a reverent caress, and there is
softness and scent in its touch, like a linen kerchief that hints of
wild berries. The taste of its honeyed sweetness enters the dream, and
she finds herself drifting deeper into sleep as his arms encircle her,
drawing her up against him with soft Yoruba words.
Her body seems to float, the dream deepening, its world of light and
shadow absorbing her, beckoning, the softness of the bed gliding away.
Now she feels the touch of her soft cotton shift against her breasts
and senses the hands that lower it about her. Soon she is buoyed
upward, toward the waiting moon, past the jalousies at the window,
noiselessly across the rooftop. . . .
She awoke as the man carrying her in his arms dropped abruptly to the
yard of the compound. She looked to see the face, and for an instant
she thought it truly was the old priest in Brazil ... the same three
clan marks, the same burning eyes. Then she realized the face was
younger, that of another man, one she knew from more recent dreams. She
struggled to escape, but the drugged cloth came again, its pungent,
cloying sweetness sending her thoughts drifting back toward the void of
the dream.
. . . Now the wall of the compound floats past, vaulted by the figure
who holds her draped in his arms. His Yoruba words are telling her she
has the beauty of Oshun, beloved wife of Shango. That tonight they will
live among the Orisa, the powerful gods that dwell in the forest and
the sky. For a moment the cool night air purges away the sweetness of
the drug, the potion this _babalawo _had used to numb her senses, and
she is aware of the hard flex of his muscle against her body. Without
thinking she clings to him, her fear and confusion mingled with the
ancient comfort of his warmth, till her mind merges once more with the
dark. . . .
Atiba pointed down toward the wide sea that lay before them, a
sparkling expanse spreading out from the shoreline at the bottom of the
hill, faintly tinged with moonlight. "I brought you here tonight to
make you understand something. In Ife we say: 'The darkness of night is
deeper than the shadow of the forest.' Do you understand the chains on
your heart can be stronger than the chains on your body?"
He turned back to look at Serina, his gaze lingering over the sparkling
highlights the moon now sprinkled in her hair. He found himself
suddenly remembering a Yoruba woman he had loved once, not one of his
wives, but a tall woman who served the royal compound at Ife. He had
met with her secretly, after his wives were killed in the wars, and he
still thought of her often. Something in the elegant face of this
_mulata _brought back those memories even more strongly. She too had
been strong-willed, like this one. Was this woman also sacred to
Shango, as that one had been . . .?
"You only become a slave when you give up your people." His voice
grew gentle, almost a whisper. "What is your Yoruba name?"
"I'm not Yoruba." She spoke quickly and curtly, forcing the words past
her anger as she huddled for warmth, legs drawn up, arms encircling her
knees. Then she reached to pull her shift tighter about her and tried
to clear her thoughts. The path on which hed carried her, through
forests and fields, was a blurred memory. Only slowly had she realized
they were on a hillside now, overlooking the sea. He was beside her,
wearing only a blue shirt and loincloth, his profile outlined in the
moonlight.
"Don't say that. The first thing you must know is who you are. Unless
you understand that, you will always be a slave."
"I know who I am. I'm _mulata_. Portugues. I'm not African." She
glanced down at the grass beside her bare feet and suddenly wished her
skin were whiter. I'm the color of dead leaves, she thought shamefully,
of the barren earth. Then she gripped the hem of her shift and summoned
back her pride. "I'm not a _preto_. Why would I have an African name?"
She felt her anger rising up once more, purging her feelings of
helplessness. To be stolen from her bed by this ignorant _preto_,
brought to some desolate spot with nothing but the distant sound of the
sea. That he would dare to steal her away, a highborn mulata. She did
not consort with blacks. She was almost . . . white.
The wind laced suddenly through her hair, splaying it across her
cheeks, and she realized the night air was perfumed now, almost as the
cloth had been, a wild fragrance that seemed to dispel a portion of her
anger, her humiliation. For a moment she found herself thinking of the
forbidden things possible in the night, those hidden hours when the
rules of day can be sacrificed to need. And she became aware of the
warmth of his body next to hers as he crouched, waiting, motionless as
the trees at the bottom of the hill.
If she were his captive, then nothing he did to her would be of her own
willing. How could she prevent him? Yet he made no move to take her.
Why was he waiting?
"But to have a Yoruba name means to possess something the _branco _can
never own." He caressed her again with his glance. Even though she was
pale, he had wanted her from the first moment he saw her. And he had
recognized the same want in her eyes, only held in check by her pride.
Why was she so proud, he wondered. If anything, she should feel shame,
that her skin was so wan and pale. In Ife the women in the compounds
would laugh at her, saying the moons would come and go and she would
only wet her feet, barren. No man would take some frail albino to share
his mat.
Even more--for all her fine Ingles clothes and her soft bed she was ten
times more slave than he would ever be. How to make her understand
that?
"You only become a slave when you give up the ways of your people. Even
if your father was a_ branco_, you were born of a Yoruba woman. You
still can be Yoruba. And then you will be something, have something."
The powerful hands that had carried her to this remote hilltop were now
toying idly with the grass. "You are not the property of a _branco
_unless you consent to be. To be a slave you must first submit, give
him your spirit. If you refuse, if you remember your own people, he can
never truly enslave you. He will have only your body, the work of your
hands. The day you understand that, you are human again."
"You are wrong." She straightened. "Here in the Americas you are
whatever the _branco_ says. You will never be a man unless he says you
are." She noticed a tiny race in her heartbeat and told herself again
she did not want to feel desire for this preto, now or ever. "Do you
want to know why? Because your skin is black. And to the Ingles black
is the color of evil. They have books of learning that say the
Christian God made Africans black because they are born of evil; they
are less than human. They say your blackness outside comes from your
darkness within." She looked away, shamed once more by the shade of her
own skin, her unmistakable kinship with this _preto _next to her. Then
she continued, bitterly repeating the things she'd heard that the
Puritan divines were now saying in the island's parish churches. "The
Ingles claim Africans are not men but savages, something between man
and beast. And because of that, their priests declare it is the will of
their God that you be slaves. . . ."
She had intended to goad him more, to pour out the abusive scorn she
had so often endured herself, but the softness of the Yoruba words
against her tongue sounded more musical than she had wanted. He was
quietly smiling as she continued. "And now I order you to take me back
before Master Briggs discovers I'm gone."
"The sun is many hours away. So for a while yet you won't have to see
how black I am." He laughed and a pale glimmer of moonlight played
across the three clan marks on his cheek. "I thought you had more
understanding than is expected of a woman. Perhaps I was wrong. We say
'The thread follows the needle; it does not make its own way.' For you
the Portugues, and now this _branco _Briggs, have been the needle; you
merely the thread." He grasped her shoulder and pulled her around. "Why
do you let some _branco _tell you who you are? I say they are the
savages. They are not my color; they are sickly pale. They don't
worship my gods; they pray to some cruel God who has no power over the
earth. Their language is ugly and harsh; mine is melodic, rich with
verses and ancient wisdom." He smiled again at the irony of it. "But
tonight you have told me something very important about the mind of
these Ingles. You have explained why they want so much to make me
submit. If they think we are evil, then they must also think us
powerful."